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It’s late and the beach is empty, shrouded in darkness.

The wind is battering dramatically against the coastline, the crash of the waves echoing around the natural amphitheatre of the cliffs.

As he makes his way unsteadily down the wooden steps to the sand, his board tucked under his arm, he pauses to lean on the rail and peer out.

His eyes are adjusting now and he can make out the mass of white foam tumbling towards shore from what must be towering waves.

He can hear the roar of them in his ears.

If this was yesterday, he would make the decision not to go out.

The conditions are bad and getting worse. It’s too risky. His instinct is to turn back.

But things are different now and tonight he will ignore that instinct.

He will ignore it because for as long as he can remember he has had an aching need to surf, a need that burns through every cell of his body and has the capability to override any rational sober thoughts he may have.

He will continue down the steps and he will stumble across the sand towards the waves with his board, because this is all he is.

This is the only way he knows how to be.

And he is too heartbroken to pay attention to instinct.

*

Later, when he is struggling underwater against the current that is crushing his lungs, when he helplessly tumbles and rolls through the pitch black, when he thinks this is it, I’ve fucked it , his instinct will kick in again.

It will tell him to fight.